Porphyria
by Rhoda Nightingale
Summary: Part 3 of 3: A mysterious narrator has been betrayed by her lover, The Joker, and is offered solace in Bruce Wayne's mansion while she decides what to do next. FINAL CHAPTER: falling apart gracefully.
1. Prologue

Summary: Sequel to "Queen of Hearts." Porphyria, the previously nameless narrator of the previous two stories in this series, has been betrayed by the Joker, and decides to stay with Bruce Wayne while she works out what to do next. But the Joker isn't about to let her, or his arch nemesis, Batman, rest. Just so there's no confusion: there will be no love triangle here. My heroine has only one true love, twisted though it may be, and she's not going to get it on with Bruce. Kay? This is more gruesome than the last one, by the way, but not until the later chapters. Consider yourselves warned! Also, please take note that I've shifted the 'category' for all three stories to 'The Dark Knight,' now that the option's there.

"Porphyria"

_Prologue_

"You've been trapped in a building rigged to blow up, and in a roomful of gun-toting madmen before – I think you can handle a premiere."

I glared at Bruce Wayne from the opposite seat in the limousine. "It's not the same kind of fear, and you know it. Don't make fun of me."

Bruce laughed gently and opened the door. I waited just long enough to make him uncomfortable, then stepped out onto the carpeted runner. The high-pitched adrenaline from the crowd had been unpleasant enough from inside the car, but now it was overwhelming. I swayed on my feet, but didn't fall. Bruce turned to me, his breezy, nonchalant smile firmly in place, and offered me his arm. I took a deep breath and looped my arm through his, then allowed him to lead the way.

I had agreed to this outing only after extreme coaxing on Bruce's part. His insistence that I appear in public, on his arm, was part of his plan to eradicate the dissent that the people of Gotham felt toward me. I was not hopeful, and in fact was concerned that my being seen with him would do more harm than good. He had a reputation to protect; I did not. Still, he was persuasive, and unrelentingly stubborn. I was weary of arguing with him.

There was, however, a stroke of providence that I had not foreseen: Bruce Wayne, with his extraordinary wealth and notoriously impulsive nature, was a greater draw for the wandering eye of the crowd than I. I was grateful for his company then. I did not know exactly what he'd told the public to convince them that I was no longer a threat, but his word – and his money – carried far. Already I was little more than a curiosity to them, a footnote in Gotham's checkered history, and now the most recent consort of the eccentric billionaire who watched over them in secret by night.

The walk from the limousine to the opera house was brief, but agonizing. I clung to Bruce's arm and focused on breathing, doing my best to ignore the stares and endless questions, spoken and unvoiced, of the glitterati as they passed us on either side. For his part, Bruce maintained the illusion of well-mannered arrogance that he had practiced for so many years. Underneath it, I felt his tensely coiled attention to detail, and his protective attitude towards me. He introduced me as a 'friend' and gave those who asked a false name. I shook hands and smiled and chattered politely. Suspicious apprehension bubbled to the surface more than once, but it did not last. These people were too occupied with their own petty delinquencies to concern themselves with ours. I allowed myself to relax, just a little, and smiled more easily.

Just one variable remained in question: The Joker. I had never told him that Bruce Wayne was the Batman, although I'd known it along. My reappearance in Bruce's company could reveal all to him. It wouldn't take him long, with his uncanny intuition and deep understanding of human nature, to puzzle out exactly what had happened to me after the night he'd tried to murder me. I mentioned this concern to Bruce; he brushed it off. When it was time, he would deal with The Joker himself.

We took our seats in a private box overlooking the stage, and as the lights dimmed, Bruce leaned toward me and put his hand on mine. "Are you all right?" he whispered.

"No," I answered. "But I'll manage."


	2. Chapter 1

AN: Thanks for the continuing praise and support, guys! I hope I don't disappoint you, Alba. Yikes! Just fyi, the rest of this story is pretty much linear in the way it's told. No more flashbacks, in other words. But I hope you like the slightly more normal format anyway. (The poem I'm referring to here is Robert Browning's "Porphyria's Lover," and the rest is more or less the Wikipedia entry on the disease.)

1

Porphyria. The woman in the classic Victorian poem, strangled to death by the man she loved, her long hair wound thrice about her throat. Also a degenerative disease that made one sensitive to sunlight, and which could induce vivid hallucinations and seizures. It was this very condition which spawned world-wide myths about reanimated corpses who slept in graves and fed on the life-blood of mortals, creatures that most called "vampires." It was only a name. My name.

Wayne Manor was quiet. It stood far enough from the other residences in Gotham that the voices could not reach me. But it was not peaceful. The house teemed with ghosts. Dark secrets and memories seeped up from the very foundations, stirring the air with heaviness and regret. Bruce Wayne was a haunted man. Most of the specters belonged to him, and he carried them with the stoic grace of a man who knew his place in the world, and although it was difficult – too great a burden, really, to place on one person – accepted it. I heard the name 'Rachel Dawes' frequently, so much that I began to recognize the shape she took in his mind. The name took a markedly different shape in the mind of Bruce's lifelong servant, Alfred, and I wondered at this change, but elected not to speak of it. Not yet.

When I had been there three weeks, Bruce and Alfred began to whisper about me. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I sat in a chair in the library, near the window, staring at nothing and trying not to feel or think. I heard them, their hushed concern for me, their anxiety over my inertia. I was not ill. The discomfort I felt went deeper than that. Every night, I could not stop myself from listening for _him_, and once or twice I succeeded. The ticking was distant, and slower than I remembered it. I let the guilt gnaw at me for another four days before accepting the choice I'd made.

I unfolded myself from the chair and went downstairs to the kitchen. Alfred stood up, startled, when I entered, but composed himself quickly. "Oh!" he said. "Good afternoon, miss. Would you care for anything to eat? Cup of tea, perhaps?"

I smiled and took a seat at the little table. "Yes," I said. "Tea. Thank you."

"Master Wayne is not at home," said Alfred, as he put the pot on to boil. "I expect he'll be back by nightfall, but he is a mite unpredictable."

"I understand. Sir, you needn't worry about me. I know I've been . . . unpleasant company, but I'm merely coming to terms with all that's happened over the past few weeks. I'll be all right."

He smiled kindly and said, "Of course you will," but I sensed his doubt, and his pity. Always pity. It came from everywhere now.

"Master Wayne wishes to speak to you as soon as you feel ready," Alfred continued. "Shall I send for you when he gets home?"

I nodded. "Certainly. I am sorry for my behavior. I don't mean to impose on your hospitality."

"Oh, don't be silly, my dear! It's no trouble at all."

And as he said the words, they became true. I knew I was a burden to them both. My admitting the fault made it easier. Bruce arrived home just after dark, and sat with me in the opulent den in front of an electrically controlled fireplace. "All right," he said. "No more secrets."

I nodded. "No more secrets."

"Start at the beginning. Tell me everything you know."


	3. Chapter 2

AN: Thanks an extra-lot, Devryn, for your unwavering loyalty! I assume the rest of you are still out there, lurking, so thanks to you too! Not much going on in this chapter – just a little background and plotting – but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Here it is!

2

My confession was lacking, and Bruce knew it. It was impossible for me to tell him everything, such as the exact location of The Joker. For one, I would need to listen intently for his voice in order to do that, and my heart wasn't ready. For another, I had done enough treachery to him already, and would not go further. Bruce did not press me. He understood.

The first thing he asked involved the mass breakout at Arkham. He'd been under the impression, as had I, that The Joker meant me to give him the names of the patients who would be the most useful to us. The plan changed during my incarceration. Instead of breaking out only those with the most potential, he broke out as many as possible without even looking at the names, and asked me afterwards about their qualities. Bruce was not surprised by this; he was familiar with The Joker's tendency to change his mind on a whim. But he still didn't understand my part in the plan, either before the change or after it.

"He said you heard voices," said Bruce. "What's that about? What kind of voices?"

"Everyone's," I said. "All around me. All the time. Their innermost thoughts and fears and joys. I can ignore them if I choose to, but it's difficult."

He stiffened in his seat. "Can you hear what I'm thinking right now?"

I shook my head. "It doesn't work like that. It's a feeling, not a complete, coherent thought. I have to concentrate to hear words or see images. But I can tell that you're frightened of me."

He laughed off the accusation, but I wasn't fooled.

"You don't need to be," I said. "I have no reason to harm you. I never have."

His laughter faded, and he scrutinized me. "That's how you knew, isn't it?" I raised my eyebrows. "That first night, when I threatened you at the subway. You knew who I was even then, because you could hear my inner voice."

I smiled. "Yes," I said. "No amount of guttural grunting can change _that _voice."

"So, why didn't you tell him?"

"It's not my place. Some secrets are best kept. Anyway, he doesn't care."

"Doesn't _care_? He's asked me to take off my mask so many times—"

"And you believed him?" I chuckled. "You know him better than that, Bruce. Believe me, he doesn't want you exposed. He knows as well as you do that if Gotham found out your true identity, then the Batman would cease to exist. That's the last thing he wants. He needs you."

Bruce sat back in his seat and let out a troubled breath. A great deal of time passed as he processed what I'd told him. I didn't keep track. The wait did not bother me. "Porphyria," he said finally, "sometime this week, I want you to meet with Commissioner Gordon."

My brief serenity shattered like glass. "I don't—"

"He's going to give you a full pardon if you cooperate with us. For everything – that means no arrests, no records, nothing. Do you understand?"

"But . . . my time in Arkham. Won't that—"

"I'll take care of it. But we need you to help us track down the rest of the escapees from the asylum. Talk to Gordon, and he'll brief you on exactly how this is going to work. You don't have to tell him everything about your abilities – he might not believe you anyway. But you do need to say something."

I sighed. "He'll believe me," I said, remembering my first encounter with Gordon. "What do you expect me to do about The Joker?"

"Nothing yet. If this pans out the way I think it will, he'll come to us."


	4. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks as always for the reviews, guys! More Gordon coming up, as predicted—but Bruce's 'plan' won't be revealed quite yet, and Joker won't be making an appearance for a while. He has to work his way in with some style, naturally, haha. Enjoy!

3

As soon as I was reintroduced to Gordon, I apologized for misleading him so badly. I told him I had lied to him deliberately, and although I had my reasons for doing so, I was regretful that my actions had caused him so much pain. He asked once more about The Joker; my answer had not changed. So he gave me a list of the other patients still missing from Arkham, along with their photographs. The names were meaningless, but I remembered their faces. It wasn't much, but it was enough for me to begin.

I was allowed, under close supervision of course, to take the photographs with me to the roof. It was a low building, so the voices were near enough. I listened intently and was able to find directions and distances for a dozen of them – nothing specific, but enough to start the hunt – and promised to come back to repeat the exercise until my task was done. Bruce escorted me to and from the station every day, but I was not otherwise allowed to leave the house. The precaution was for my safety; no one could know where I was being kept. It was degrading, but I accepted it without argument.

A little more than a week after my agreement to help their search, the Gotham City Police Department could account for all of the escaped inmates but two. I offered to help dispatch them; Gordon was horrified. "Our policy is to send our criminals to _trial_ first, and then to jail, not to kill them on sight. In the case of criminal insanity, they're taken to Arkham. That's our procedure."

"You're wasting your time," I said. "Those men are beyond rehabilitation. You can continue to hold them and hope that they won't do any more damage if that's your wish, but your hopes are in vain."

Gordon just sighed and shook his head, and I conceded defeated. His endless faith in all men was endearing, but it was not a sentiment I shared. I had seen too many good intentions turned backward by evil. I tried to explain this perspective to Bruce later on, but he disappointed me as well.

"I feel sorry for you," he told me, "if that's what you really believe. You don't have faith in people at all?"

"In people?" I said. "Yes, of course! I simply have no faith in the men you've delivered back to incarceration with my help. There is a difference between keeping faith in the good of mankind, and in clinging to the vain hope that _certain_ men can be brought back from their darkness. Perhaps if you had seen as many ages as I have, you would understand. The darkness they carry inside them takes time to adjust to, so that one can see the light again. More than a lifetime, for them."

He shook his head. "You're unbelievable," he said. "I've seen more 'darkness' than a lot of people see in their entire lifetimes, but I'm not like those men."

"No, you're not. You're different."

He shrugged. "Why can't any of them be different too?"

I scrutinized him, searching for the thread his thoughts were weaving. It wasn't just vain hope after all. It was something else.

"Listen," he said, "whatever you think you know, there's only one thing I know for sure about people: they can always surprise you."


	5. Chapter 4

AN: Hey, where'd my readers go? Well, it's time again anyhow, so here's the update. This is a bonding moment between Porphyria and Bruce (as friends, of course – like I said, no love triangles) and a revelation about Porphyria's relationship with the Joker. R n' R, people!

4

I had difficulty sleeping. The ghosts of Wayne Manor would not allow it. And then there was the distant ticking sound that I could not ignore, try as I might. Some nights it was too much, and I left my bed and wandered the halls until the pain lessened.

One night, Bruce joined me. His sleep was troubled too, sometimes because of the double-life he devoted himself to, but more often because of his ghosts. I sat in the den, by the dying fire. I had a picture in my hand: a young woman, dark-haired, fair, smiling. I'd found it on a bookshelf. I felt Bruce's presence behind me, but he stiffened, and there was a familiar shape in his mind. I turned my head; he was staring at the picture.

"Is this Rachel?" I asked.

He nodded and took a seat next to me.

"Tell me about her," I said.

He frowned. "Why?"

"I was nearly put to death on her account," I said. "Twice. I'm curious."

"Okay." He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "She's. . . She _was_ my oldest and best friend. We grew up together." He took the picture from me. "She was very brave, and very stubborn. She saw right through me, too – I could never hide anything from her for long. And she was stronger than me in some ways. There were a few times when I wanted to give up on Gotham altogether, but she wouldn't let me. She never stopped fighting. Not even when—" His voice hitched, and he stopped.

"Just a friend?" I asked tentatively

"Well I wanted her to be more, but she wouldn't. . . Keeping up with a relationship on top of everything else that I do would be difficult to say the least. She was going to wait for me. Once I was finished being Batman, she would have been mine." His voice had taken on a bitter edge, and I sensed the slow-burning rage he was so skilled at keeping quiet. "I guess you know that psychopath you gave your heart and soul to is the one who took her away from me. If I hadn't let him—"

"_Let_ him?" I laughed gently. "Bruce, do you honestly blame yourself for what happened?"

"You weren't there, you didn't even know him back then. If I'd just—"

"No – listen to me. The reason The Joker targets people like you, and Gordon, and even Harvey before he lost his mind, is because of your idealism. It's that stubborn hope, that compassion, that generosity of spirit that makes you vulnerable to him. He knows you will take responsibility for the evil things he does. That's how he broke Harvey. Don't let him do the same to you."

Bruce eyed me steadily, caught between gratitude and distrust. "You're not going to defend him?"

"Do you think I should?" I asked. "I know he's done wrong. It doesn't make me love him any less, but I know how cruel he is."

He shook his head. "How can you still care about him after what he did to you?"

"It's not about him. I loved him before he admitted to loving me back. This changes nothing."

"He actually said that? That he loved you?"

"Yes, he—" Before the thought was even fully in my head, I remembered The Joker's exact words. _What if I said I was in love with you?_ Suddenly I had to concentrate on breathing. "No," I said slowly. "No, he didn't. He said 'what if.'"


	6. Chapter 5

AN: Thank you all so much!! I do enjoy throwing these twists into the story – makes it more fun, don't you think? This next chapter is where the plot kicks in. And there's an evil cliffhanger at the end, so brace yourselves!

5

How easy it is to replace truth with fabricated dreams. The words one remembers, rather than the words that were spoken. Wishes block out all else so easily. I had forgotten. I was not often deceived, but it happened. I knew The Joker cared for me – that, I had not imagined. But he'd never said so. I was not angry with him. What I'd told Bruce was true – I loved him whether or not he loved me. My agony was a result of disappointment in myself. I prided myself on hearing the truth behind the words that were spoken, rather than just what one wanted to hear. It was my gift, my very self. And I'd failed.

I understood then why Bruce had taken it so hard about Rachel. His pain went deeper than mere heartbreak. I'd meant it when I'd told him that his part in The Joker's ruse was not something he ought to take the blame for, but I had not realized the lesson applied to me as well. Bruce's gift, his self, was the Batman, and the Batman was Gotham's guardian. He had failed too. And just like that, we became allies.

The night of my revelation was both humiliating and relieving. Bruce did not leave me, but took me in his arms, and waited for my sobs to subside. He never told a soul about my breakdown, not even Alfred. I thought about bedding him. It would have been good for us both. Physical love was so all-consuming that it allowed the mind to rest. It would be just a temporary reprieve from our respective demons, but a reprieve nonetheless. To me, it was simple. Unfortunately, Bruce suffered from a brand of long-ingrained morality that would not allow him to take me guiltlessly. In his mind, it would have dishonored Rachel's memory. The thought, the 'temptation' was there, but it would only have caused him further suffering to act on it. I did not bring it up.

What _did_ happen was the setting in motion of Bruce's plan to reintegrate me into society. I heard words like 'sentence' and 'rehabilitation' in the language used to explain away my work at the station, once my presence there was brought to light. It was never revealed where I had been staying; only that I was more or less alone, and learning to behave myself.

The day after Bruce took me to the opera, Alfred and I were once again alone in the house. I was in the library, reading, when I heard him coming. Thought waves with a buzzing, insatiable timbre. One of the two men from the asylum that I'd never been able to find.

I ran downstairs and found Alfred polishing the silver from the dining room. One look at my face convinced him that something was wrong. "What it is, dear?" he asked.

"Someone's coming," I said. "If you won't allow me to fight, then we need to hide. Now."

He nodded. "Follow me." He led me down, down, down, by way of an old-fashioned elevator shaft of the sort one finds in mines. This was a deep place, one that I'd not been permitted to see before. Skittering, winged creatures flapped and chattered high above us. Strange technical equipment glowed in the darker corners. This was the cave, the lair of the Bat, the most fiercely guarded secret of Wayne Manor. And there, in the cool, damp dark, we waited.

Alfred cleared his throat awkwardly. "Can you tell what's going on up there?" he asked.

I looked at him. "Bruce told you," I said.

"Don't worry, love. Your secret's safe with me." He smiled, and I believed him.

I closed my eyes and listened. "It's difficult from this distance," I said. "I'm getting . . . anxiety, confusion, desperation. This man is on a very tight schedule, and he fears disappointing his superior."

"So whoever's up there is following orders from someone else?"

I nodded. "Most definitely. I remember him. He's not clever enough to do something like this on his own."

"So who's the puppeteer, then?"

"I don't know." I could guess. But I didn't want to.

When we ascended again, we found no damage done to the house or any of Bruce's possessions. But there was a package on the doorstep, badly wrapped in ugly orange paper, with a violet ribbon.


	7. Chapter 6

AN: Thank you, loyal readers! Sorry I took so long updating this one; I'm stuck on another story, so that what I've been focusing on lately, but I have this one mostly finished so I'll try to keep the updates more regular from now on. Enjoy! A word of warning: This chapter's fairly gruesome.

6

We left the package where it was until Bruce returned. I assured Alfred that whatever was inside would not hurt us – that would come later. But I saw no harm in delaying the unveiling of whatever our unexpected guest had given us. It was Bruce who discovered the playing card tucked neatly under the ribbon of the package – the Joker, with the words 'Trick or Treat' scrawled in red on the face.

"He knows you're here," said Bruce, without looking at me.

I didn't answer, but took the card from him and turned it over in my hands. My heart beat double, then returned to normal. Yes – it had been he. Not an imposter. He'd written the message himself.

"You might want to stand back, Alfred," said Bruce, as Alfred crouched close to the package.

I took a step away too, more as a courtesy than a precaution, and Bruce opened the box. He made a face, and I caught a waft of intense revulsion.

"What is it?" asked Alfred, creeping closer.

I swallowed, and breathed, waiting for Bruce's horror to fade enough for me to approach him, then looked over his shoulder. Inside the box was a human hand severed at the wrist, its stiff fingers clutching an unmarked videotape. Alfred made a soft, disgusted noise in the back of his throat and turned from us again. I put a hand on Bruce's shoulder and looked closer. The fingers were tattooed with Chinese characters.

"It's him," I murmured. "The other one."

"Other one?" Bruce asked. "What other one?"

"The man who delivered this package is one of the men we've been searching for, from the asylum. This," I pointed to the hand in the box, "belonged to the other one."

Without any further discussion, we moved to the den to watch the tape. The dead hand did not part from it gently, the cold, rigid fingers cracking rather than bending, but Bruce managed to control himself enough to get the job done.

The tape was a grainy, low-resolution black and white, and music from the opera Bruce and I had just seen played in the background. Underneath the music was a piteous, muffled moaning. And leering at us from the center of the screen was The Joker's laughing face. "Brucey, Brucey," he said, "we need to talk. Strictly business, of course. I want to negotiate a trade with you. You see, you've got something that belongs to me. And I want her back. Now, I don't have anything shiny to give you in exchange, but I do have something that your pathetic police force is looking for, and I bet they'd cough up a fancy reward for him." He turned the camera around to show a young man, bound, gagged and blindfolded, his stump of a wrist darkly bleeding, in a folding chair against the wall. "You recognize this fine young gentlemen? He's a wanted looney, four-time escapee from Arkham Asylum. Well, three-time if you don't count the one I put together myself." He cackled and swung the camera back towards himself again. "If you're watching this, then you've already got a sample 'cut' of the deal. I'll send you another tomorrow, and then another the day after that, one little piece at a time, until I find Porphyria at the corner of Main and 32nd. Alone. At midnight."

The tape cut off; I was already halfway out of the room. Bruce got up and ran after me. "Where do you think you're going?" he called.

"To the corner of Main and 32nd," I said calmly.

"No way," he said. "You stay put – he's just—"

"He won't hurt me. We have an understanding."

"Are you insane?! Weren't we just talking about the fact that he never even—"

"We have an understanding," I repeated firmly.

Bruce sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "Listen to me," he said. "If you turn yourself over to him, you'll just be giving him what he wants. It won't stop him, it's a game."

"It isn't about what _he _wants," I said.

Slow realization dawned on Bruce's face, and in his mind, and I knew I'd gotten my point across.

"Please," I said. "I need to speak to him."

Alfred cleared his throat and came forward. "Master Wayne," he said, "Commissioner Gordon will want to hear about this. After all, the people of Gotham know her face now. Perhaps the best course of action is to wait. Until morning, at least."

So we reached a compromise. We would do nothing, either of us, until morning. Bruce came to my room and locked me in after he thought I'd gone to sleep. The fool still thought I could be controlled. But I had agreed to wait. So I did.


	8. Chapter 7

AN: Wow – look at all those reviews! Thanks so much, you guys! This is a very short chapter, and not very interesting (I don't think) but it'll move the story forward anyway. Enjoy!

7

There was no doubt that the contents of the video would be made public, either by some accident or some design of The Joker's. Sure enough, the sickening reel was included as a breaking story on the morning news. So Bruce paid a visit to the police station, unmasked, and arranged for a press conference to take place in the afternoon. Better to meet the situation head-on than attempt to hide it, or so he felt.

I was excluded from the press conference, but I was allowed to watch the live broadcast from another room elsewhere in the same building. Bruce said he was worried that the high tension in the conference room would upset me, and cause me to make a spectacle. All a convenient lie, of course. He didn't want me stating out loud my intention to meet The Joker's demands.

Lucius Fox sat in the viewing room with me. I thought about running, about slipping past the guards at the door, overpowering them if I needed to, and following The Joker's voice until I found him again. But there was too much at risk. I could not leave this place without incriminating Bruce, and maybe Gordon. I could not turn on the people who had helped me regain mobility in the waking world without losing that mobility, and I was not ready to part with it yet. I was very restricted in what I could and could not do, but there was a curious freedom in being one of the 'good guys.' I did not know how long it would last.

"Mister Wayne," said one of the reporters on the TV, "how do you know she's really changed sides? What if she's passing information to The Joker to make you his next target?"

Bruce shook his head. "If The Joker has anything against me, it wouldn't be that simple," he said. "And I don't think he'd threaten her like this if she was still on his side. He tried to blow her up, remember – if it weren't for The Batman, she'd probably be dead right now."

I made an impatient clicking noise with my tongue.

"Something wrong?" asked Lucius.

"That arrogant pig is actually taking credit for my life!" I said. "I escaped that building on my own – no one rescued me."

"Well that might be a problem," said Lucius. "If they knew you'd gotten out yourself, they might think The Joker _meant _you to get out, which means you're still a danger to society. I know how he can seem, but don't worry – this is for the best."

I let out a steadying breath, allowing Lucius's faith to calm me, and continued watching.

"What about these other two escapees from Arkham?" asked another reporter. "Wasn't she supposed to help you find them? What happened? How do you she's not keeping them off your radar?"

"The search for the escapees from Arkham is ongoing," said Gordon. "She has helped us very much with the rest of them, and continues to help us as much as she can. But these things take time. Frankly, it doesn't surprise me that the remaining fugitives would band together like this. It means we're getting to them, and I see that as a positive thing."

"But this is The Joker we're talking about," said the third reporter. "This could be just the beginning. If you don't get rid of the girl, he'll go after Wayne Manor. Are you really going to just let that happen?"

"My home is very well protected," said Bruce, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "and like I said, I don't believe it's me he's after."

"It doesn't matter what you believe!" yelled someone from the back. "I don't understand why you're working so hard to protect her anyway. She's one of _them_!"

"We've discussed the loyalty issue already," said Gordon, his voice taking on an authoritative tone. "As for turning her in, every time we've tried to meet The Joker with one of these ridiculous demands, it hasn't done us any good. We're not going to hand over an innocent girl—"

"She's not innocent!" said someone I couldn't see.

"—an innocent girl," Gordon repeated more loudly, "in exchange for a lunatic who's already on our wanted list." He stood, along with Bruce, and thanked the swelling crowd for their time, effectively ending the discussion.

Lucius stood up and cleared his throat. "You know," he said, "if you really could track down The Joker – not to turn him in, but just to _talk _to him – I bet you could convince these folks whose side you're really on."

I frowned. "I don't follow you."

"Well he takes your advice, doesn't he?" Behind his words, I felt hope, and peace, hanging by a thread but there nonetheless. And all at once, his intention for me became clear.

"Oh," I murmured.

He smiled. "Oh!" he repeated, and helped me to my feet. "You're a very special, talented person, young lady. You could do a lot of good in the world, if you really wanted to. Just something to think about."


	9. Chapter 8

AN: Hey gang! I know, it's been a while—I've been slacking off on the updates in lieu of several different things piling up in real life. However, this story only has a couple more chapters to go, so hang on. You're almost there!

8

I did not hide this time. Nor did I attempt to fight. When I heard The Joker's henchman coming, with another 'cut' from his comrade, I stood at the foot of the grand entranceway to Wayne Manor, and waited for him. I closed my eyes, pinpointing his location, then directed my gaze toward his hiding place.

"Geoffrey," I said. "Come out, Geoffrey."

He was horribly small and fragile, half-crouched behind a hedge, his frame lean and drooping with fatigue. The clown mask he wore was unnecessary, of course, but I imagined The Joker found it in keeping with the aesthetic of the game.

"Look at me, Geoffrey," I said. "Come here." I held out my hand for the hideous package he had tucked under his arm.

When he was close enough to hand it to me, his breath hammered and choked. "Please," he said, just at the edge of a sob. "You have to come back. He's killing him."

As he spoke, his pain for his comrade seeped across into me. Bruce's words came back to me, and I realized that this one was, perhaps, not beyond redemption after all. I struggled not to cry, and forced a sympathetic smile. "I know," I said gently. "Don't be afraid, Geoffrey. I'll be there soon." I took the package from his trembling fingers and handed him a sealed envelope. "Take this to your master. Do not open it or otherwise attempt to read it. Your life may depend on it. Can I trust you?"

He nodded, but his desperation was all the answer I needed.

"Good," I said. "On your way."

Geoffrey sprinted out the way he'd come and quickly disappeared amongst the patchy shadows beyond the grounds. The letter I'd written was brief, but very clear:

_J,_

_You are not to harm the boy, physically or otherwise, any further. I have no doubt, regardless of your request, that you expect me to come to Main and 32__nd__ street flanked by a police squadron at some distance that won't immediately be visible. I, however, desire to speak with you, and you alone, without any tricks or complications. Therefore, you will meet me at a place of my choosing, truly alone, exactly fifteen minutes after you read this._

_No eyes but yours and mine have seen this. I expect you to keep it that way. If you fail to do as I ask, or attempt to thwart this request in any way, I will know. And I will be very disappointed._

_~Porphyria_

_PS_

_I want my sword back._

I'd written an address at the bottom.

Bruce burst through the front door just as Geoffrey disappeared from sight. "Hey!" he yelled. Then he turned to me. "Are you just going to stand there? He's getting away!"

Without a word, I thrust the package into his hands and began walking away.

"Did he talk to you?" Bruce asked. "Was he here, at the—"

"Call Gordon," I said. "Tell him that Geoffrey Mason and Colin Wittrock will be at Main and 32nd Street tomorrow at dawn."

He gaped at me. "You know where they're hiding?"

"No. But that's where they'll be. Call it in."

He shook his head. "You can't—"

"I'm going to him tonight, with or without your help. Don't make this more difficult than it already is." Of course his concern for my safety was secondary to his instinct to protect. It wasn't about me. He was the responsible one, always needing to help. "Please."

He didn't answer. He turned his back on me and went inside. He didn't follow me.


	10. Chapter 9

AN: Thanks for the continued support, everyone! I feel like this chapter leans a bit on the side of fluff, but hopefully it's not too bad. Enjoy!

9

My mind was made up. I knew he'd be angry with me, but that wasn't a problem. I worried how I would behave when I saw him again. Once I was close to him, to the ticking, and then the softening silence that took over when he was around me, I could change. There was a chance my decision would melt away, and I'd remember nothing but my love for him. I hoped he would be angry enough to stop that from happening.

The address I'd given him was the museum. I assumed he would meet me in the photography exhibit, the one that was given in memory of Rachel Dawes. It would have amused him, one more insult to the life he'd so famously taken. But he surprised me again. I found him in the Greco-Roman room, all flowing marble statues and pale blue walls. I heard him first, and followed the ticking. But before I could quite make out his location, his voice sounded behind me: "That color is _terrible_ on you. You look so much better in red."

I glanced down; I was wearing a pale blue sweater and jeans. I hadn't thought about my appearance much. I turned around. He was lounging atop one of the white columns that flanked the entranceway, picking at his fingernails with his knife. He did not go quiet. The ticking persisted.

"It was not necessary to mutilate that young man," I said.

He chuckled. "I know," he said. "It was just funny."

"What did you do to him this time?"

"Let's just say he won't be listening the opera in stereo anymore." He let out another sickening cackle.

"If you ever wish to speak to me, all you need do is ask," I said.

"That's too easy!"

He hopped off the pillar, but before he reached me I struck him, hard, across the cheek. He spun, unprepared for the blow, then exploded with maniacal laughter. "My, my, you're _feisty_ today!" he cackled. "What's the occasion?"

"Don't do that. I'm not one of them." Something was wrong. Why was he still ticking?

"Oh, aren't you?" he said. "I haven't heard you complain much. Although I guess you wouldn't. He's keeping you fat and happy in that mansion, I bet. Not much to complain about. Are you fucking him too?"

His words stung only a little. "It crossed my mind," I said.

That did it. His mind cooled to a slow-burning ember as he remembered who I was. "Okay," he muttered. "Okay. I guess _that_ shouldn't surprise me. After all, you kept me waiting so long I figured—"

"I? I kept _you _waiting?" I advanced on him; he put his hands up and stepped back. "I waited for you for eight months, two weeks and four days in that god-forsaken institution! Anyone else would have given up completely, but I never lost faith in you. Not once! I knew you would come for me, I _knew_ it."

"So you're saying I should've 'kept the faith' – is that it? As I recall, you told me you wanted to follow me 'to the end of the world,' and I _was _going to let you."

"You said not to come looking for you!"

He burst out laughing again. "And you _believed _me?!" he cried. "You're not as clever as I thought, little lady. Don't kid yourself. You left because you wanted to leave. If you really wanted to come back to me, you woulda done it no matter what I said on that tape."

My chest went tight and cold. I crossed my arms and turned away from him. He snickered under his breath. I let him enjoy his small victory; he'd earned it. "I. . ." I started, then paused to take a breath. "Lucius was right. You meant me to survive."

"The bomb was wired to the window, not the timer," he said. "About seven minutes after you either smashed it or opened it to 'escape.'"

"The window. . . It wasn't even locked."

"Nope."

"Just seven minutes?"

"Well, you're spry – I figured that'd be enough for you. And I was right!"

I swallowed hard to force back the tears. He swelled and gloated, wallowing in the misery he was causing me. But underneath it all I could still feel his love for me, and mine for him. "I came here," I said, "to release you from your promise."

Everything went still. "What do you mean?" he asked.

I looked back at him. "I know you could never do it. It's all right."

"Oh, I could," he growled, forcing me back against a giant vase and pressing his knife under my chin. "I _really_ could, especially right now." He stared at me, and I stared back, struck once more by how large he was in my eyes, this close, after so long. His anger was fading, but he held on, fighting against the forgiveness that was coming. He licked his lips and readjusted his grip on the knife. "I could kill you," he said, "but I don't want to. You see, I have this theory. About killing folks. When they get close to death, people – _most_ people – show you what they're made of. Who they really are. But," he tapped the end of my nose with the blade, "that's not gonna work with you, is it? I'm never going to _know_ you that way. Not as much as I want to."

"You could try," I whispered.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I only get to do it once. It's not worth the risk, little lady. Sorry."

I smiled. "I told you, it's all right."

He backed away, released me, put the knife back in his pocket. "There's nothing I can do to make you hate me, is there?" he asked.

"You want me to hate you?"

He shrugged. "Might be easier, y'know. When you come back and I'm not here."

I was amazed. I struggled to see if he really meant it. Was that what this was about? The one thing I'd told him I was afraid of – losing him? His face blurred in my eyes, and I realized I was crying. "You. . ." I could say no more. He had my face in his hands, and he was kissing me. I felt weak and fragile as I wrapped my arms around him, but I wasn't. It was his weakness, his fear, his vulnerability that I felt. I slid my hands to his shoulders as we parted. "Say it," I whispered.

He stared at me, dark eyes deep with uncertainty. "Porphyria, I can't—"

"Please. I need to hear the words."

He swallowed. "I love you," he said. Then he kissed me again.


	11. Chapter 10

AN: Yay, lots of reviews!! Only two more chapters to go (including this one), and then we'll pack it in for good. BUT. I'm having a Harley Quinn story beta'd as we speak, and that'll be up on LJ within the week. Anyone who wants links, message me! Onward:

10

"So how long do we have before they come charging in to rescue you?"

I laughed and toyed with a lock of his hair. "They won't," I said. "No one knows I'm here. The Batman might eventually, but I'll hear him coming. Don't worry."

He sighed and held me tighter. We lay in a tangled embrace on one of the cushioned benches along the wall, my head against his chest, his fingers caught in my hair. We hadn't bothered to undress completely – we didn't have the patience. It was strange, the animalistic ferocity with which we attacked each other combined with the gentleness. Once I threw him down so hard that his head cracked the tile floor; he only laughed and rolled me over, seeming to enjoy himself even more. He covered me with slow, tongued kisses even as he gripped my hair so hard I couldn't move my head. It was perfect.

Most of his make-up had melted off, or I had kissed or rubbed it off. No doubt my own face was now dappled with black and white and red. I didn't mind. I shut my eyes, and listened to the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

"So, why are you _really_ here?" he asked.

My throat suddenly felt dry. "Is it that obvious?"

"Mm. Only to me, I'm sure."

I sat up; his hand slid down my arm. "I need you to take your prisoners to Main and 32nd by dawn tomorrow," I said.

He groaned loudly and disconnected himself from me.

"Don't be mad," I pleaded. "It's the only way I could get them to trust me."

"Them?" he laughed, sharply, mirthlessly. "So you're not coming back to me after all." He shook his head. "You really are full of surprises, little lady."

I reached out to touch his face, but he jerked away from me.

"They're all liars, y'know," he said. "Not like us – they're hypocrites. They'll only use you and your special 'powers' as long as they can get something out of the deal. Then, they'll put you away. They'll stuff you back in that 'asylum' and shut you up for good. Because you'll never be one of _them_. They'll never really trust you. Do you know why?"

I shut my eyes; a single tear squeezed out under my lashes. "Tell me," I said.

"Because of _me_," he said. "You're never going to turn me over to them, and they'll let it slide for a month or two, but after that, they'll start to get anxious again. They'll forget why they ever trusted you in the first place. They'll watch me, burning buildings, money, people, and wonder why you refuse to do anything to stop it. It won't end happy for you, if you go with them."

I heard Lucius's words in my memory, imploring me to talk to him, to stop him being what he was. "You _could_ stop this," I said. "You could change." He shot me a glare. "It's not too late. They'll still give you another chance, if you want it."

"I don't." His tone carried a cold finality.

I sighed. "I know. I don't want that either."

"Then what _do_ you want?"

I took a deep breath, determined not to let his cold fury distract me from what I had to say. "I want to breathe the free air again," I said. "To walk among real people, unhindered, not as one of them but _among_ them, and not be hated or vanquished for it. Bruce Wayne, Commissioner Gordon, Lucius Fox – they all know what I'm capable of. And they offered me something that you could not: the chance to use my abilities for good. I know it won't last forever," I said quickly, when he opened his mouth again, "but such an opportunity has never before presented itself to me. Not in a hundred lifetimes. For the first time in my entire existence, I can answer to my real name. I don't have to hide now. Do you see?"

He made a huffing noise and stood, shoving me as he rose. "Well," he said, "I guess this is good for me. I steal hope out from under people all the time. It's been a long, long time since it's happened to me. I forgot what it feels like. And they will turn on you," he added, shaking his finger at me. "Maybe not today, but just wait. It'll happen."

"I know," I said. "And when that day comes, I'll be back. I'll be your Queen of Hearts."

He shook his head. "You can't ask me to wait for you."

"I'm not." A delicate, excruciating sensation tore through me: the feel of his hard, brittle heart beginning to crack. I took my eyes off him, and smiled. "You know," I said, "when I broke that window, it caught the light from the moon and the stars outside. Every shard fell so slowly, and the pieces shone like silver. It made me think of you."

The gradual fracturing continued, tender and violent and exquisite. I got to my feet and went to him. He shied away, but not much. I took his face in my hands and stared deep into his eyes. "Just once," I said, "I wish you could see the world the way I see it. There's so much pain, and goodness, and bitterness, and wonder. It's beautiful. Every part. Even this." I placed one hand on his chest, over his heart.

He bent his head so that our foreheads touched and curled his fingers through mine. "I just want you to know," he said, "that if I ever _do_ decide to kill you, I'll have the balls to look you in the face when I do it." Then he kissed me once more, softly, his lips barely touching mine.

I bowed my head and pressed my cheek to his heart, and his arms went around me. I didn't want to leave him. The farther I got from his heartache, the easier it would be to feel my own. But I'd made my decision. He had accepted it, hard as it was. He was letting me go. I detached myself from him once more, turned my back on him, and walked away. Once, I heard him call, "Wait!" It was so plaintive that I almost obeyed. Almost. I walked on as if I hadn't heard anything, and left him behind.

My sword was resting on the doorstep of Wayne Manor, with a big purple bow around the hilt.


	12. Chapter 11

AN: Well, gang, here we are. The conclusion of a long, angsty, and hopefully enjoyable ride. Thanks everyone for the continued support and wonderful reviews. It's been fun! And do let me know if you want to see the Harley Quinn story; it'll be uploading on LJ very soon.

11

"Well?"

It was mid-morning the day after my last meeting with The Joker. The two fugitives had been found on the street corner I'd named, at dawn just as I'd predicted, but The Joker was still at large. The deed earned me another portion of Gotham's trust, but not all.

The excuse I'd given them was blackmail. I knew so many of The Joker's secrets, the real ones that he did not want told, it wasn't hard to make them believe that he was forced to bend to my will. I knew secrets about everyone. They still feared me, but they gave me my chance.

I didn't sleep. I was in the library again, by the window, when Bruce put the question to me. I glanced at him, and knew he hadn't slept either. His alter ego had been hard at work getting Geoffrey Mason and Colin Wittrock to safety some hours ago.

"He doesn't know," I said. "To him, you're just another of Batman's mysterious, high-profile allies. No more of a threat than Gordon. Less of a threat than Gordon, actually," I added with a giggle.

He nodded. "Good. Thank you."

"Thank you for not attempting to stop me."

He tensed and cleared his throat. "You're not still—"

"Yes, I am still in love with him. What I did last night was one of the most agonizingly difficult things I have ever had to face."

"But he lied to you, he tried to _kill_ you!"

"Bruce, have you ever lied to someone who loves you?"

He glared at me, then gave me a shaky half-smile. "All right," he said. "Point taken. Actually," he sat down in a leather chair across from me, his tone shifting, "I wanted to ask you something. When you . . . go on to your next life, do you see people? I mean the—"

"I cannot take a message to Rachel for you," I said, sensing the direction his thoughts were taking. "Even if I could, is that what you'd really want? No – I will not disrupt her peace. And neither should you." I reached out and put my hand on his arm. "It's time to let her go, Bruce. For your own sake."

He sighed. "Right. But thanks, all the same."

I smiled. "You were right, by the way. Some men can change. I won't assume otherwise again." I stood up. "Thank you for being so kind to me. I'm glad to have known you, Bruce Wayne."

He nodded slowly; I was glad he could sense what I could not say aloud. "Take care of yourself, Porphyria," he said.

"You do the same." I pressed my hand to his shoulder as I passed. I did not look back.

I wondered which way was harder. Leaving a sweetheart behind by choice, or having them taken from you by death or circumstance. I'd experienced both, in my own way. The pain of the most recent loss was always the most poignant. Still, there had been none quite like The Joker. I hated hurting him, but he would survive. He would forget me, as he had once threatened to. It had already begun. He was rewriting my part in his checkered, bloody history, and soon I would be nothing more than a caricatured footnote in one of his stories. The ones that began with "You wanna know how I got these scars?" and ended with death and a smile. It had taken him far too long to see me clearly in the museum last night. It wouldn't be long before I disappeared completely. I envied that, his imaginative delusions and 'multiple choice' past. In my hundred lifetimes, I never forgot a moment. I remembered everything.

I tied my hair up and strapped my sword across my back. I took nothing else with me but the clothes I wore. And my name, of course. The dawn rose like mist between the blackened buildings and alleyways. I looked neither left nor right, and kept moving. My path was empty now. I thought about going to Main and 32nd to witness the final motions of the plan I'd helped concoct, but no. My work here was finished. The city could sleep for at least one night in peace.

I didn't expect Gotham to ever reach the redemption that people like Commissioner Gordon and Bruce Wayne hoped for it. But I preferred it this way, watching the light play endlessly against the shadows, staring in wonder at the rapture and despair that kept such close company in this place. And at the very center of its dark heart was my Harlequin of Hate, my Clown Prince of Crime, my Joker. Ecstasy, madness, danger, and delight took up common residence in him. One thing I realized only after I had left him behind forever: he _had _found a way to break me. Not like the scattered glass of a painted window, or even the fragments of a building destroyed by a bomb. I had fallen apart gracefully, giving myself to him and leaving my own heart in his wake. The mistake he made was assuming he wouldn't fall too.

Perhaps he would never recollect what had passed between us. Perhaps he would. He was the only person whom I had given my name freely, without reason or thought of consequence. And he had not used it against me. I could only hope that, in some other life, maybe a hundred or a thousand years from now, that might count for something.

THE END.


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